


every time you're next to me ooh you're making me live

by thegatorgood



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, there was only one horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26878237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegatorgood/pseuds/thegatorgood
Summary: Like horseback riding, Aziraphale's happiness did things to bits that Crowley didn't evenhave.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47
Collections: CLOSE ENOUGH 2020-2021





	every time you're next to me ooh you're making me live

**Author's Note:**

> Deadlines I signed up for and then forgot about. :( This is for the "only one vehicle/animal" trope.
> 
> No horses were harmed in the making of this fic.

Crowley loathed horses. Not the animals themselves as much as the animals as a means of transportation: his skeletal structure was a great deal more forgiving than a human's, and he still couldn't spend too long on horseback without aching everywhere and wishing humanity had domesticated something with better padding and shock absorption. It also did not help that, as a demon, he was expected to ride the sort of bad-tempered, soot-black, eighteen-hand sort of horse that would bite you as soon as look at you. Whenever he could get away with it, Crowley would exchange such steeds for an elderly donkey or a pony or basically any placid creature the stables had to offer. He liked to travel in style, but being thrown into the English mud multiple times, and arriving sore in bits he didn't even have, was not his idea of style. Nor, for that matter, was being stranded in the middle of England because a high-spirited white stallion had kicked its way through the stable walls and made a dash for freedom.

He patted the dark mane of the dumpy mare who'd done him very well since leaving London and said, "Bad luck."

"How am I ever to get to Yorkshire now?" Aziraphale asked, despondent. "And I can't just miracle myself there, people will ask questions."

_You could miracle them out of asking questions_ , Crowley almost said, but of course the angel would never think of doing that. "Lots of people have horses around here," he suggested.

"They won't sell," said Aziraphale. "And I can't miracle them into selling; it's a question of free will."

"Miracle the horse back?"

"It also has free will."

Horses had free will? _Horses?_ Crowley was suddenly very not sorry for them at all, even for the one who had decided it would give him a lift through England and not dash off in the middle of the night, which might have been why he said, "You could hitch a ride with me," without thinking. It was worth it to see Aziraphale's face break into a beatific smile, but of course Aziraphale's face breaking into a beatific smile was the reason why the offer was a very bad idea. Like horseback riding, Aziraphale's happiness did things to bits that Crowley didn't even have. Things that were also tortuous, only in a different way.

It could be worse, Crowley told himself, as Aziraphale climbed up onto the horse. At least Aziraphale was seated behind him. At least he wouldn't be smelling Aziraphale's hair the entire way. It wasn't some sort of ointment or pomade, either, it was this remarkably consistent smell throughout the centuries, and it wasn't unusual for Crowley to want to stick his tongue out to get a better whiff of it. He might have, if Aziraphale had been in front of him and blissfully unaware of it.

As it was, Aziraphale was sitting behind him, his arms tight around Crowley's waist like he was afraid Crowley's horse was as high-spirited and bad-tempered as his runaway mount had been. Which it was not, although it did seem to resent carrying two humanoid figures instead of one, jolting Crowley back against Aziraphale with every fourth or fifth trot.

"Oh, this is nice," said Aziraphale against his neck. "Very smooth, you know. Not at all like I'm used to."

"Never let Home Office choose transport for you," grunted Crowley. "They go for form over function every time."

He thought that would be it, but of course it wasn't. The angel was quite taken with the landscapes (damp); the villages they passed (also damp); and the cheese and bread he'd received from the innkeeper (smelly and crusty, respectively, but at least not damp, despite England's best efforts). His breath gusted against Crowley's neck. Every so often the horse would land poorly, and Aziraphale would clutch more tightly at Crowley and then would _apologize for it_ , breathing on Crowley some more while holding Crowley's sides and squeezing against his back and Crowley didn't even like cheese. Cheese, in Crowley's opinion, was what happened when humans left milk (also overrated) to rot, and also currently somehow a delicacy which he must taste, preferably by means of Aziraphale's lips.

Crowley had been on Earth since there was an Earth, and closely observed, and interfered with, humanity, or what might have been called God's divine plan, for nearly as long, but sometimes, in the darkest moments of what passed for his soul, when the water rose up over all living things in quite a large hitherto inhabited portion of the globe, or when people decided to throw one another into spiked pits for the fun of it, or when crabs were suddenly a thing--five separate times--he found himself thinking that perhaps God's ineffable plan was really to make him, Crowley, as miserable as possible. In which case, great job, God. And the whole thing about sticking something beautiful and glorious and worthy right under his nose and putting a big "do not touch" sign on it was quite on brand for her, he had to admit.

"Ugh," he groaned, despite himself, and Aziraphale clutched at him again.

"Are you quite all right?" He seemed to be trying to pull Crowley upright. Which was only sensible: Crowley's hands were on the reins and his feet were in the stirrups and his horse seemed as deeply aggrieved by the entire situation as he was.

"Of course I'm all right," said Crowley. "It's just--legs. What are they good for?"

Aziraphale seemed to be considering the question seriously

"That was rhetorical, angel."

"Well," said the angel, indefatigable, "I do believe there should be a small village a few miles distant. We can turn in early for the night, and I can see if they have any mounts to spare, for the morrow."

It was a good idea. Crowley needed a lie down and if they kept at this any longer, the horse might throw them both and escape. And then they'd both be stuck riding whatever single horse they could find in the next village, and Crowley would rather conjure up one of Hell's emus and ride that then keep torturing himself like this. Aziraphale seemed to be having a grand old time, which he wouldn't, if he felt anything about Crowley like Crowley did about him, and that made the angel's relentless cheer even worse.

They reached the next village with its inn and Crowley staggered down from the horse. His legs wanted to fuse together and wriggle him off into the woods, but that would spook the horse. And also the villagers, but he didn't care about them, except Aziraphale would be very upset about him scaring the humans.

Crowley somehow made his way into the ale house. "What's your wine selection like?" he asked, and then, at the look on the innkeeper's face, threw down a few coins. "Never mind. As much mead as that can buy, and two rooms for the night, and a place in the stable for my good horse."

The innkeeper examined the coins, then pulled out a large, dusty bottle and a dented metal cup, which showed an unwarranted amount of faith in Crowley's self-control. Crowley opened the bottle and, because Aziraphale was on his way in, poured a measure into the cup. It wasn't a very good mead but it smelled strongly of alcohol and that was all Crowley required.

Jeroboam, he thought, what a miserable little fucker that was, and ran his tongue over his teeth for a second taste of the honey.

"Oh, is that mead?" asked Aziraphale. The innkeeper eyed him, then Crowley, and got a second cup out. Crowley poured out another measure; there was more pleasure than pain in sharing a drink, at least, with Aziraphale. They could companionably sit several feet apart and Crowley could enjoy his presence without enjoying it a little too much.

And then the innkeeper cleared his throat before pushing some pennies and a single brass key across the counter. "Beg pardon, sirs," he said, "but I've only the one room available, with only the one bed."

Crowley took his next drink straight from the bottle. "Of course you do."


End file.
